


Beneath Cold Bodies

by kasumixkira



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BoFA, Gen, Minor Character Death, Some Descriptions of Violence, grab tissues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasumixkira/pseuds/kasumixkira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo awakens on the battlefield surrounded by death, only to find comfort in easing the passing of an injured Dwarf by singing an old song of the Shire (better known as Pippin’s ‘Edge of Night’).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath Cold Bodies

**Author's Note:**

> [Hobbit-kink Prompt Fill](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=5651777#t5651777)  
>  And I have no beta, so I apologize for any mistakes I have made (and will correct them as I find them).

The battle was over and finally won, though not without its price. Warriors beyond count lay dead in all direction: Orcs and their Wargs, Men, Elves, and Dwarves. The Eagles had already carried off their fallen, which had been mercifully few, while allies still combed the battle plain for survivors. The sun blanketed the horizons in hues of ruby, leading to the sapphire shades of night. Closer to the foot of the Mountain, torches and funeral pyres were being lit.

Bilbo crawled up from where he had fallen, half hidden beneath cold bodies and with head throbbing from where a stone hit it in the heat of battle. A lucky strike, he recalled, for he still wore the ring and had been unnoticeable. The Hobbit slipped the gold band from his finger and into his waistcoat pocket. Peering around, he found himself alone with only corpses as company, and that thought made him shiver more than the cool wind blowing over the plain. He did not wish to be alone, so he walked on sore feet, stepping over comrade and enemy alike.

Off to his left, Bilbo heard weak breaths, harsh and unsteady. “Hello,” he called out, hand resting on Sting’s handle in case it was a foe still hanging on for spite, and moved slowly towards the sound.

A wet cough, as from a mouth full of liquid, erupted with a threatening grunt. Turning quickly, the Hobbit found himself staring into the cloudy eyes of a Dwarf, one belonging to the army of Dain Ironfoot instead of his own Company. The braids of his white beard, now in unkempt tangles and drenched in blood, rested heavily on his chest and hid deep gashes beneath. He snarled and struggled to grab for any weapon within his reach, and Bilbo could have laughed if the situation had been different. Halflings were unknown to the eyes of strangers, and he probably looked like a wee Goblin, all covered in dirt and stained with blood.

“Wait, wait!” Bilbo cried. “I’m not your enemy, Master Dwarf. I’m a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire; I traveled in the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.” While the Dwarf still had distrust in his eyes, Bilbo eased himself to the ground and grasped the other’s hand—him being in too much pain to protest. He said in all sincerity, “I wish to help.”

Something within the Dwarf released, and all tension left his muscles as he sagged against the ground, blood again rising from his lungs and leaking from his mouth. “I am Taun, son of Falun,” he gasped, “as your service, Mister Baggins.”

“And I, at yours, Mister Taun,” he answered solemnly. “Oh, how I would bring you to Master Óin, but I fear we are too far out.” The Hobbit shook his head sadly, sighing, “And I am not much in the Company’s favor.”

If Taun understood his confession, he gave Bilbo a reprieve, instead speaking through his agony of his own fate. “I have heard of Óin’s medical renown; however, my wounds are too grievous for even him.”

As much as he wished he could protest, he looked upon the fallen warrior and knew Mister Taun would not survive his wounds. The cuts severed too deep.

And something of his emotions much have shown on his face, for Taun continued, “I am an old warrior, Mister Baggins, and I know when it is my time. But I will take comfort in having found a treasure of a different sort surrounded by the long dead.” The rasp grew worse in his voice, teeth grinding and eyes pinching shut. “I would have seen Erebor regain her glory, if I could.”

Bilbo resolved to stay for his passing; at least he could honor that. As least he could redeem himself to one Dwarf. So, the Hobbit hid his tears and the hitch in his breath, desperate to bring comfort to his companion. “And you have, Mister Taun, you have. The enemy is destroyed, and look,” Bilbo hefted the Dwarf into his small arms, ignoring the groan of pain, and turned Taun to face the reclaimed kingdom, if only so he would not focus upon the loss of life around them, “the Mountain is retaken by kith and kin. Thorin will be King Under the Mountain, and your people will flourish.” 

Taun reached out his arm as if attempting to capture Erebor in his hand like a priceless gem, his eyes shining through their dimness and showing re-determined resolve. He dropped back against Bilbo, muscles taut beneath broken armor, and the Hobbit clutched his hand tighter, knowing the last moments had come.

In a voice low and quiet, Bilbo sang an old song of his people, from a time before they found their Shire. It was one he remembered hearing in Old Took’s warbling voice at family gatherings and in his mother’s light tones as she lulled him to sleep on stormy nights when he was just a youngling. She said that the past should be remembered and shared, for it held relevance to all journeys in the present.

“Home is behind; the world ahead.” Taun would leave on his own journey soon, but the thought did not make Bilbo sad. This warrior died for his home. “And there are many paths to tread.” And if any of his ambition was born of gold lust, Bilbo chased the idea from his mind; he would rather believe that on the cusp of death, a Dwarf’s heart would remember its true quality. 

“Through shadow, to the edge of night.” His chest moved slower and his clear eyes rolled, but his hand never released Bilbo’s own and his gaze never left Erebor. “Until the stars are all alight.”

“Mist and shadow; cloud and shade.” Taun spent his last coarse breaths whispering in Khuzdûl, paying homage to his forefathers, or so Bilbo believed. “All shall fade. All shall…” Bilbo’s voice wavered as Dwarven fingers slackened in his grip. “…fade.”

Taun, son of Falun, passed into the halls of his ancestors, and Bilbo wept over his body; though, not in sadness for his death—he was an old warrior who knew his time. Bilbo would not forget his name.


End file.
